how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying
by MentalistECBM
Summary: it's not easy being an adult, and it's definitely not easy dealing with slytherins in muggle clothing and children with wands. but harry's handling. kind of.


_We do not, have not, and will never own these characters. Or any sense of sanity. Or Gryffindor-ness. Which, actually, we're happy about. We do, however, own an unhealthy obsession for ties and such._

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><p>-?-<em><strong><br>**_

_**'how to succeed in adulthood, while kind of trying.'**_

-?-

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><p>He has a lit cigarette in his hand.<p>

Leaning against the outer wall of Honeydukes, he has on Muggle denims and a sweater with both sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His Mark is on full display, and Harry knows that the whispers as people enter and exit the shop are about him. Malfoy.

He hasn't been sighted since a month or two after the war ended, immediately after his trial. Harry'd spoken up for him and his mother and then nothing. But he's here now, in Hogsmeade, and though Harry has his suspicions, he very truly hopes that they are wrong.

–scenebreak?-

He gets proven right exactly one week before term starts, two after he sees Malfoy in Hogsmeade. McGonagall calls for a staff meeting, to get guidelines set before the children stampede and cause riots abound.

There is a fifty-something year old woman taking Transfigurations; she seems nice enough. But then.

But _then_.

'I have been in correspondence with Mr Malfoy for a year or so now, and have finally persuaded him to come to join us here at Hogwarts. As I was telling you before, Harry, he will be teaching Defence alongside you, the theory section of it, while you shall maintain practical.

'I know you will argue with me, claiming that you can handle it yourself, but every student seems to want to take your class, regardless of year or House, and you and I both know how well you respond under that much pressure.'

He doesn't blush, and is rather proud of that. But—just, _no_.

It's Malfoy.

Malfoy, his rival in nearly every way. Malfoy, the spoiled pureblood brat. Malfoy, the Death Eater.

But—Malfoy, the boy who couldn't kill Dumbledore. Malfoy, the boy who may have saved Harry and Ron and Hermione. Malfoy, whom he risked his own life for once, when the flames were high and deadly.

Malfoy, whom he stalked their entire sixth year at Hogwarts on the grounds that he was watching for Dark activity.

And they're to be teaching together.

Harry isn't quite sure what he feels.

He's never quite been sure how he feels around Malfoy.

And that scares him, just-a-bit.

Malfoy looks much the same as he did near Honeydukes, save for the cig. His clothes are strange. Well—no, that's the wrong way to phrase it. It's not the clothes that are strange—it's the fact that it's a _Malfoy_ wearing them that freaks Harry out. You'd think that a righteous pureblood would never want to be seen in anything Muggle-made, but.

Harry doesn't know how to finish that sentence.

'Potter,' Malfoy finally says, while Harry sits staring at him. 'Good to see you,' and he almost sounds like he means it. There's no—grimace on his face or blatant insincerity in his voice. Which, again, is strange. He half-expected some comment about his Mudblood of a mother and how all the Weasleys are blood traitors, and that makes him feel rather stupid. In this post-war decade, Muggleborns and halfbloods have more prestige than many of the older, Dark pure families, and he should have realised that Malfoy would know that.

It takes Harry a moment to respond. He feels like he's floundering, tossed out of the dynamic he remembers from their school days.

But it's been years, he reminds himself. They've grown up, and Malfoy is being civilised. He can return the favor, if only to prove that he's—no, that's the teenager in him talking. He can return the favor because he's an adult, and it's not so much a favor as something expected.

'Malfoy,' he says carefully. 'Er, how've you been?'

He almost winces, but manages to catch it. The 'er' makes his response rather unimpressive.

Not that it's supposed to be impressive, for any sort of reason. He's never wanted to impress Malfoy. Not really.

Malfoy doesn't immediately jump on the sign of his discomfort. He just looks down at his hand and rubs a bit of dust off his wand. Harry's is covered in fingerprints, he knows. He never remembers to clean it. He's glad it's in his pocket at the moment, hidden from scrutiny.

And he's treating Malfoy as if the other man is still looking for weaknesses, as if he's not grown. He may have, and Harry should give him that chance, even if he is thrown off balance.

'Well enough, I suppose. Not my ideal to be teaching, but I can't say I don't enjoy it when I've never really applied myself further than the Slytherin common room.'

He doesn't really know what to say then, because he always _has_ been the worst conversationalist, and this meeting just takes his awkwardness to a level of extremes. So he nods and bites his lip, looking away.

McGonagall clears her throat; when Harry turns toward her, she looks rather pleased, in the way she does.

'Now that that is done and over with... Gentlemen, I was hoping that you would spend the remainder of the week planning, so as to have everything coordinated. I expect for the first month to go as smoothly as possible, for every professor here, and all our students.'

That's the end of it. Well, it should be.

When she stands up, though everyone else leaves, she asks that he stays behind with Malfoy and _my god_, it's like first year all over again.

He gulps, because this woman will always intimidate him.

'I would like to thank the both of you for not making such a big fuss of it. Especially you, Harry. I know that there were some... misunderstandings between you two, during your school years—' Harry hears a gentle snort behind him, where Malfoy is standing near the door and can't help agreeing. Because fuck if that's not an understatement. '—but I'm amazed at what fine young men you have become. Any questions, any slight disagreements—do not hesitate to ask for my opinion or advice.'

Harry gives her an affirmative. He doesn't hear anything from Malfoy, but perhaps he's answered silently, a proud incline of his head that just borders on disrespectful. But maybe he's not disrespectful—Harry doesn't know the circumstances that led McGonagall to hire him, after all. Perhaps he respects the headmistress even more than Harry does—but no, because he respects no woman more than McGonagall. Other than Hermione, of course. And maybe Molly Weasley.

He stands from his seat and turns to face the door after bidding her good evening. Malfoy is waiting for him, and they leave the room quietly. Harry, for his part, is searching for words. He knows his brain retains knowledge of a great many, but none seem to be fitting themselves together properly, and hell if he's just going to spout gibberish at—his new teaching partner? His co-professor?

And how will they introduce the class to their students? How will they introduce each other? How is this supposed to work?

Suddenly, he's unsure that they'll really make it through this. Teaching isn't hard for him—he started a form of it, after all, fifth year. But… he's been comfortable with the way he's taught these last four years. Adding a new element will be tricky.

Malfoy finally finds his voice as they are walking through the entrance hall. 'So, Potter, as McGonagall said, I'm to be teaching the theory portion of the class, more of the textbook and history aspects. You're confident with the demonstrations and teaching the students the wand work. We could divide each class into halves—one half working with you and one with me, switching halfway through the hour. Or we can teach as one. It might be more difficult, but perhaps more beneficial for the students.'

'Er…'

It slips out again, that damn sound of surprise and searching and confusion. Malfoy glances at him, and finally Harry recognises some part of him—the haughty intelligence in those grey eyes is quite familiar. 'Really, Potter, haven't you thought about this at all?'

'I only just found out today!' he defends himself. He feels himself flush in spite of this.

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at Harry, looking shocked. 'Please tell me that you're joking.'

'Well—yes. I hadn't even been sure that she'd made a full decision as to whether I needed a—partner?' He is not quite sure if that is the wrong word to use, but it works. 'If... if you don't mind,' he hesitates for a moment before continuing, 'then we can actually sit down together and come up with a lesson plan that'll work for the both of us. I usually wing most lessons, and that works for me.' He doesn't fail to notice the slight curl to Malfoy's bottom lip, as if to say, _Of course_. He ignores it.

'I'm afraid that I prefer to actually have a vague idea of what I'm doing, Potter. So, yes. But, rather than tonight, would you mind tomorrow morning? So as to get my thoughts together, of course.'

Harry nods, and is quite proud of himself. He's being an adult. And that's always good.

-scenebreak?-

He refuses to admit he's unnerved. He won't. Even if his palms are a little warmer than usual, even if he's knocked his pumpkin juice onto Professor Sprout's Daily Prophet twice already. Pomona, thankfully, is good at drying charms, though her paper is stained orange.

Malfoy swings into the seat at his side, and Harry jumps slightly, earning himself a sceptical glare. 'Really, Potter, you'd think a Defence teacher would be more observant of his surroundings. If you don't watch yourself, I'll be tempted to hex you in class as a demonstration for the students. Do you not remember our fourth year and the deranged bat who taught us?'

Harry does remember Mad-Eye Moody, and his yells of 'CONSTANT VIGILANCE,' quite vividly, though the man wasn't actually their teacher that year—a Death Eater had used Polyjuice to assume his position. He wants to remind Malfoy of that—perhaps it would help to know one of his own had turned him into a ferret instead of the old Auror whose body was never found.

He reminds himself sharply that treating Malfoy as one part of himself, as the Death Eater he once was, is not responsible. He reminds himself, again, that he's a responsible adult. It feels good to be a responsible adult. He must remember that.

'I'll be forced to return in kind,' he says instead, focusing on buttering a slice of toast.

'A duel? I suppose that could be a good idea at times—keep their interest, show them the use of spells, get them to learn when it's appropriate to use proper etiquette and when acting and reacting is the better course,' Malfoy muses as pours himself a cup of tea. 'Do you agree? Maybe… once or twice a month? It might help us get along, too, something to look forward to.'

Harry can barely see the edge of the other man's smirk, and he's fighting his own. 'I agree,' he responds, nodding primly.

'Oh, and I'll not tell you which days I plan to duel you,' Malfoy adds. 'Since you like winging it and all.'

Harry snorts, because this is more familiar. But—not so bad, honestly.

After they've both finished eating, Malfoy suggests that they go down to his rooms, near the dungeons. (Harry can't really say that he's surprised.)

It's... _neat_. Everything is perfect and orderly and just _right_. The only person that Harry knows to be even remotely as organised as this is Hermione, and she has had to get used to mess, living with a Weasley and knowing Harry Potter. But this.

'Huh,' he says, ever eloquent. 'Theory will be just right for you. I've never really known how to actually keep my students organised, and I'm not necessarily–'

'Fit for normal social interaction?' Malfoy finishes.

He doesn't make some rude jibe, though. Because there is no real malice in Malfoy's voice and anyway. He's an adult. Adults are generally mature.

He takes a seat in front of Malfoy's desk and they begin, discussing not only their teaching style, but the level of difficulty for each of the classes, their focus, what they can expect from their students. Harry has been teaching for four years—he knows the usual pranks. He also accepts them in a way he is sure Malfoy will not. They set a disciplinary regimen, one that works for both Malfoy's strictness and Harry's looseness.

The house elves bring them lunch, since they're still arguing—no, more discussing—the integration of their tasks. Harry is almost sure that he'll have less work than Malfoy, but he never really liked teaching by the book anyway. Now he can focus on the practical. Their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students should be happy with the set-up of the class, at least.

He leaves Malfoy's rooms a few hours later, when evening is falling, and nods his head. Term starts in five days, and they have to be ready. The classroom McGonagall has given them is not his usual classroom, so he'll have to move his things around, coordinate them with Malfoy's.

It's only as he's settling in to sleep that evening that he realises he's referring to him as Malfoy, still, when most of the other professors are on first-name basis with each other. He admits that it might be time to start referring to the other man as Draco, much as he might not want to.

For now, though, he is content to roll over onto his stomach and try to sleep.

-scenebreak?-

When September 1st arrives, Harry and Malf—_Draco_—it's Draco now, because see? He can be an adult—have prepared down to the last sentence.

Or rather—Draco has. Harry's sat with his chair propped back, using a Quick Quotes Quill to get down the important things from Draco's lecture, asking for question repetition and swirling his wand in the air (he's cleaned it, because he _refuses_ to let Draco have one-up on him and the adult thing is a building process, okay?) to make snakes and brooms and swords and faces.

He sees some familiar students when year twos and up walk into the Great Hall, and smiles and inclines his head when they wave. For the first time, Draco is wearing Wizarding clothing and robes, and Harry is not disappointed, not really. He just kind of... prefers Draco with the Muggle attire. The blond looks a lot more composed than Harry had his first year, but the slight tightening around his eyes and the way his hands fidget and bunch up the material of the table cloth betray him to anyone really looking.

Harry is not sure just _why_ he is really looking.

He leans over to whisper, just as the first years get led in by Sprout, 'They're only as bad as you let them be, and, well, your rules barely let them breathe.' Draco cracks a smile, so Harry continues. He's being an adult. Adults can reassure other adults and have conversations. 'Plus, it's always good to remember that we can give detentions now. Months worth.'

He sits normally again, and notices that when Draco claps after the Hat's song, he looks quite a bit more relaxed.

He bites his cheek to stop from grinning in a very un-adultlike way.

Harry is getting used to sitting by Draco at meals, used to walking with him until they split to their separate quarters or retreat to refine some details in one of their rooms. Tonight, they separate, and Harry assures himself that Draco will be fine. He doesn't need more encouragement, and he certainly doesn't need Harry sprawled in the chair across from his desk, sitting idly by and making idle chat and thinking… thinking not-idle things he doesn't really want to think about, if he's honest.

He's the first in the Great Hall the next morning, eager to see the new students settling in and to smile at them whenever glances happen across him. Draco enters a few minutes later, and Harry watches as students turn to stare at him, as they lean over to whisper into friend's ears, worried and scrutinising and evaluating. He makes sure to smile at Draco to reassure him—it's not escaped his notice, all those eyes on him, and Harry can see the signs again.

'Remember, you're the professor this time. No need to be nervous. Besides, if you decide to go throw up in a corridor, I'll just start the lesson without you.'

Draco glares at him; Harry fights back his smile. He doesn't even know why he wants to smile, and therefore he knows he should not smile.

They make it through breakfast easily, half-arguing and pointing out students they'll have to watch out for, betting on which House will do best in their classes. Harry has a headstart, since he's known some of these students for four years, others for two, some for one. Draco has known none of them.

And then the students are rising and filing out of the Great Hall, while the teachers take one last deep breath.

It's time.

-scenebreak?-

The first class is a joint group of sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins. He remembers them from the year before and isn't sure if he wants to cry, laugh, or thank the heavens. It's not a fourth or fifth year class, and for that he is very grateful, because he refuses to deal with budding hormones and hyped-up emotions so bloody early in the morning.

Draco is wearing form-fitting trousers this morning (Harry looks away, for reasons not-so-unknown) and another sweater, though this time green. Slytherin green. He restrains himself from rolling his eyes. Though his own robes are unbuttoned, and he knows that once practical truly starts they'll be shed and his tie will undoubtedly be loosened, he cannot help but feel a bit formal.

Draco is appraising the class, grey eyes roaming over the room and a slight eyebrow-lift every so often. Harry starts.

'I'm Professor Potter, and as you can see, we have an extra teacher in the classroom. This is Defence Against the Dark Arts, and this year, we shall be using ever more complex spells and protection. Professor Malfoy,' the name sounds a bit weird on his tongue, but - good, 'has more to say on the subject.'

He sounded very professional and smart.

Draco'd told him what to say, word for word. He conveniently ignores this fact.

He watches the class as Draco introduces himself and their objectives for the course, taking in their reactions. The initial fear in some of their faces—they know that last name—fades as Draco talks, and Harry thinks it has something to do with Draco's calmness and his commanding presence in the room.

_He'd be a top_, Harry thinks, before the other half of his brain catches up.

Aghast, he moves to stand by the window and reaches up to fidget with the tie. Thoughts like that make things too warm. Thoughts like that are _not_ allowed when standing in front of a classroom of sixteen-year olds. No, thoughts like that shouldn't be allowed at_ any_ time.

He realises the classroom is silent and turns around, wondering what Draco is doing. The blond's eyebrow is raised expectantly, his arms crossed. 'Professor Potter, has somebody hit you unawares with a Confundus Charm?'

The class hides smirks as Harry flushes. 'Ah, no. I apologise. You were saying, Professor Malfoy?'

Oh, this feels odd.

'I was saying, Professor Potter, that you will explaining your part in the class.'

'Right, right.' He sweeps back to the front of the classroom and smiles apologetically at his students. It's rather a good thing that most of them like him. He explains how he will be contributing to their education and demonstrates a non-verbal Patronus, which had taken some time to master after the war was over. Draco rolls his eyes from across the classroom as the stag canters down an aisle, watched avidly by the students, and Harry grins at him.

The N.E.W.T. students trail out, talking excitedly, and Harry hops up onto the desk they'll be sharing. 'I think that went well, for the first class.'

'Well enough. It wasn't so bad once I was speaking to them and in charge,' Draco muses, taking the chair and looking superior for his better manners. Harry fights down a snort.

'I told you, we'll be fine. You've got your speeches all memorised and I'm happy to wing it when I manage to forget whatever you wanted me to say. Are you ready for the second years? You're taking point this time.'

Draco sighs and straightens his sweater, using his wand to fix a single strand of his hair that isn't impeccably placed. 'I suppose. Try not to zone out again, will you?'

-scenebreak?-

It goes by easily enough, that first week. Draco does most of the talking, and Harry does a short introduction and demonstration of what the class will be working on. He has to admit that McGonagall was right; the classes have gotten even _fuller, _though the year before he would've sworn that was impossible.

By dinnertime on Friday, the whispers of _why is a Death Eater working here?_ from the upper years and _oh my god, it's Harry Potter, mate!_ from the lower ones have died down for the most part, and things are good.

And then Monday comes and the week is Harry's, working hands-on.

For the most part, he can at least say that he's not at all worried. This is his element. He's not good at bookwork, but give him a wand and a spell and shit gets done.

On behalf of the first class of the day, he clears away the desks with a swipe of his wand and, with a flick of the wrist, enlarges the room to be better fitting for a group of twenty teenagers.

Draco stands in the corner, arms folded, observing. Harry licks his lips, wanting to—do better than he usually does. It's not because of Malfoy. Of course not. It's... simply because he—because it's his fourth year teaching. Significance in the number, or some rubbish. That's all.

Really.

As the students walk in, he says, 'Wands out. Arrange yourselves however, but I am aiming for McKinley. The group goal is to protect him.'

They look slightly panicked, and really, Harry isn't too surprised. Doesn't necessarily mean that he'll go easy on them, but alas.

He lets the first spell (_Expellimarus_; he can't help himself) go before they get too organised in a close huddle around the target.

'Hey!' the girl, a Slytherin named Hawpyre, exclaims, indignant over the loss of her wand. 'That's not bloody fair! You gave us no time, and no warning. That spell was nonverbal, Potter.'

'_Professor_ Potter,' he corrects lightly, letting another flick of his wand go. Someone shrieks and falls on their back. 'I'm sorry. But I didn't realise that someone trying to kill you will very nicely _wait_ and give you a warning when he casts an Unforgivable on you. Do forgive me.'

He thinks he can hear Draco snort under his breath.

Hawpyre seems to be considering a way to retrieve her wand, and her classmates are finally falling into position, though Harry can spot the weaknesses in it immediately. He ignores one for the moment and jinxes two of the students with Tickling Charms, flicking up a _Protego_ a moment later as someone mutters the Body Bind and hoping they follow his example.

'Good, good!' Two or three have and are encouraging their neighbors. 'The first thing you should do when defending is set up Shield Charms to repel the minor spells fired at you. Know your territory, how far away the enemy is, assume he's a better wizard than yourself unless you know better. Wand up higher, Melbour, that's it.'

They scramble as Draco tosses a minor Stinging Hex into the fray—it bounces off a shield, but they seem aghast. 'Oi, that's not fair, Professor!'

Harry smiles at them and casts a _Reducto_ at the floor in front of them. They scramble back, protected from the chips of stone by their shields. 'Know how many enemies you're fighting, or people who could be enemies. Just because Professor Malfoy is standing off to the side filing his fingernails does not mean he's not a nasty piece of work—so to speak, Professor Malfoy.'

Draco rolls his eyes and shrugs. Harry can't help but watch his shoulders, his forearms, and then he focuses back on the mock-battle as a student hits him with _Tarantellegra_. He muses that he should stop ogling his fellow educator and focus more on his students, who are now stationed well enough that they can protect McKinley while facing him.

His nonverbal _Finite_ takes care of the spell, but he nods his head. 'Well done, Mr Rubbins. Counter this, if you will?'

Rubbins eyes widen as Harry's Stunner approaches him, but the student next to him deflects it and another fires a Stunner right back. Smiling, Harry ducks under it. 'You're getting the hang of it, all of you. Protect each other when one can't protect himself. McKinley, you should be participating in some way. This is not your day off,' he adds.

The lesson goes on from there, and by the time his class files out of the door, they're muttering curses under their breath, tending to smoking hair, and trying to repair rips in their robes. Harry can't help but smile as he flops down on the floor next to the robes he'd discarded. The windows are open, letting a breeze in to waft out the singed-smells and the heat.

'You challenged them. They're sixth years, Harry, not seventh years. The nonverbals weren't fair.'

'Draco, you know as well as I do that sometimes your opponent has hidden talents or is more knowledgeable. That they managed to keep McKinley safe for the hour is good, really good, and you know I wasn't as hard on them as I could have been. I do just enough so that they learn, and see why they need to learn.'

This is what he enjoys about this job, really. And he might be starting to enjoy the way Draco continues to dissect his methods as he offers him a hand to pull him up. Might be.

'That was good, all things considered. I thought you'd play it completely _safe_ with your spells, and _fair_, giving everyone an _equal chance_.'

Ignoring the jibe, Harry wipes the back of his trousers before turning around and asking Draco, 'Do I have dirt on my arse?'

Draco coughs lightly, and when he replies, there's clear amusement in his voice. 'No, you're... good.'

And then Harry realises what he's just asked. _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_ He swivels around, horrified. His face is terribly red and mouth hangs just slightly, because _fuck_.

'I didn't—not _that_ way... not in any way—if—just...' He pauses and takes a deep breath. 'Yeah. Just yeah. Or something.'

He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more, and brings the furniture back, before walking behind to his own desk and _not-_awkwardly sitting down.

'I'm sorry,' he finally manages. Barely.

'Oh, no, I don't mind. Ask me to check out your arse anytime.' Draco's face is serious as he says this, but the slow, toothy smile that appears as he walks out, claiming the loo, completely betrays him.

And Harry, himself, is pathetically and achingly _hard_, and the next class will be here in a minute or so. He doesn't want to, but he is forced to put the robes back on, lest some twelve-year-old ask why he's walking slightly funny.

The thought brings him down some, but when Draco walks back into the room six minutes in and winks at him, it's back. Far worse than before.

But really, he can't be all that surprised, can he?

-scenebreak?-

His sleep is restless that night with thoughts of grey and Draco and a desk.

He gives up sometime around three, and when he lets the thin pyjamas down and finally grips his cock, he cannot help letting out a shaky moan, because it's been _all fucking day_, and he just cannot.

His hand moves—up, down, t_wist_, just a bit rougher—and he's not ashamed to admit it, not in the dark comfort of his room, that it's Draco's voice and what it would be like to fuck Draco—hot, tight, fucking _brilliant_—and what Draco would sound like screaming his name—_'Har – Fuck, Harry!'_—and he falls over with an arch and a bite of the lip.

Panting, he falls back to his sheets and blankly stares up at the canopy above his bed, bones melted for a moment before they reform and he can reach out for his wand. He mutters a quick cleaning charm and pushes his hair out of his face. How in the world is he supposed to face Draco tomorrow, when he'll just be imagining that dream, over and over and over, and imagining new ones that will plague him in his waking moments as well?

It's hard enough to teach the proper technique for a Disillusionment Charm, but having a constant hard on for his partner—in only one sense of the word, sadly—just makes it all more complicated than it has to be.

Grumbling, he rolls back over and squeezes his eyes shut, as if that will prevent the image his mind has conjured up of Draco mid-orgasm. He almost wonders if someone put something in his pumpkin juice at dinner, but he knows that'd just be an excuse.

-scenebreak?-

Draco is late to breakfast the next morning, and Harry takes the time to gather himself and involve Filius in a deep discussion that can't be broken by the blond's arrival. As if debating about Charms is what he wants to be doing at the moment. He'd rather be turning around and leaning over to see how Draco slept, leaning over to see how close Draco would let him get, leaning over to see what Draco would do if he were that close…

And Draco is staring at him, eyebrow slowly rising as if asking whyhe's staring.

He flushes and turns back to his discussion. He scolds himself internally—he had dreams about certain people when he was in school, and he was able to look them calmly in the face then. He can do it now.

Steeled, he finishes his porridge and waits for the bell to ring, listening as Filius goes on and on. He's got a plan.

-scenebreak?-

His N.E.W.T-level 7th-years are getting far too much enjoyment out of watching him get his arse handed to him by Draco. Which just isn't _on_, for one thing.

So he thinks, _fuck it_, with the loudly-exclaimed spell-saying and elaborate wand movements. Draco isn't playing fair. Why should he?

'Dalton, hold my wand,' he says, passing the wand to the student nearest him. Dalton, though looking very confused, obliges. In the split second that it takes for Draco to slightly lower his own hawthorn wand, Harry has Summoned it from his hand.

Draco looks highly upset. Harry smirks, slow and effortlessly Slytherin.

'The _fu_—_'_ and then he remembers that he's in front of _students_, hello, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, they are so calm that Harry almost doesn't expect the '_Accio_ wand!' that the blond throws his way.

Almost.

But he does, and after waving his hand, (he's showing off, just a bit) Draco's wand mocks him, stuck to the wall by a sticking charm. Only the magical signature of the one that cast it can release it.

It's pretty genius, really.

Draco tries to Stun him, but Harry casts a shield up, and it falls to waste.

_Serpensortia_, Harry thinks, and then there is an obnoxiously bright-green snake winding around Draco chest, its fangs poised at Draco's neck.

Draco freezes, though he still manages to glare at Harry with all he's worth.

_'Bite the human?'_ the snake hisses, and, trying ever-so-hard not to grin at the look on Draco's face, Harry tells him no.

'Duel over,' he says, and lets Draco's wand back into his hand.

'And that,' he comments, turning back to the class, 'is why you never underestimate your opponent.'

'Even if they seem like they duel like shit?' Macnair asks? (She's actually an entertaining girl, nothing like her long-deceased uncle, so Harry has learned to not cringe at her name.)

'Language,' he chastises. 'But yes. _Especially_ if they seem like they duel like shit.'

The students are gossiping as they leave, Slytherins mingling among the Gryffindors in a way they never would have when Harry and Draco were their age. Harry almost wishes it had been like that for them, but then, he's not sure it would have been for the best, what with Draco taking the Dark Mark and Harry having to kill his master.

'Had to make me look bad, didn't you? Bloody show off,' Draco grumbles as he crosses the classroom again, lips pursed in disapproval.

Absentminded, Harry responds without thinking. 'You never look bad, and, besides, I guess it just shows you need to practise a little, eh?'

Draco is silent for a moment, and Harry glances over at him, wondering why. He finds the blond staring at him, calculation and something else in the grey eyes, and lifts an eyebrow. 'What? You do need to practise if you don't want to be shown up again. It's embarrassing, Draco. You're a professor and you fight like a sixth year.'

A pink flush rises up the man's neck. 'Excuse me, Potter, for not living up to your expectations. I was trying to teach them a lesson.'

'A lesson in what, letting your guard down? And what's with the "Potter" bit?'

Draco huffs and polishes his wand, removing Harry's fingerprints from the wood. 'Nothing. Just drop it.'

He frowns and faces his partner. 'Draco.'

'Prepare for the second years, will you?'

'Draco, could you look at me for a moment?'

But the blond has his head down, scratching at a sheet of paper with a quill with every bit of his concentration. Well, every bit that's not focused on ignoring Harry.

The second years are filing in, though, and Harry turns to face them, frowning in such a way that an inquisitive Hufflepuff asks if he's quite alright. He is, he assures them, and proceeds to pull out the Grindylow he's captured to teach them about. He distracts himself from worrying about Draco while explaining about the creature's horns and habits, and wishes he could just Vanish them all and force the answer from his colleague.

Instead, he'll have to wait, and somehow Draco will close himself off even more in that time, Harry knows it. He regrets that it's inevitable.

-scenebreak?-

Harry doesn't know how he does it, but a week later, Draco has still managed to—to do whatever the fuck it is that he's doing.

Oh, it _seems_ fine, on the surface. He still calls Harry by his first name, no 'Potter.' He talks to him some at dinner, about their students and lesson plans. They plan, and plan, and plan and classes go without a hitch, and students love it and Harry has never been happier with his teaching before, but. _But_.

It's all detached. And he cannot tell how he can _tell_, but he can and _Draco_.

Draco is different, somehow. They don't _talk_ anymore, not in the way they would, and before, when Harry would zone out during all that planning, Draco would be _fine_ with it, despite the eye-rolls and complaints and comments on lazy Gryffindors. Now he gives a too-polite, _'Please pay attention, Harry.'_ and okay, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal.

But.

After dinner on Friday, Harry approaches him very calmly and asks that they talk.

In actuality, Harry follows Draco to his rooms, using those spying skills that he's ever good at, and locks the door with a spell when Draco finally notices him.

'Wha—Harry, what are you _doing_ here?'

And he can see the surprise in Draco's eyes, the careful shutters coming down over eyes that had been clear for just a moment. Harry doesn't like the shutters. They're keeping him out and keeping Draco in.

'Last week, after our duel, what happened?'

Draco stares at him, swallows, pastes a sneer in place. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Pot—Harry. After the duel you taught the second years about Grindylows or something. Is this a quiz to see how much attention I was paying to your lesson?'

Harry grinds his back teeth together and narrows his eyes. The hand around his wand squeezes and a few deep-green sparks shoot out the end. Draco's gaze falls to watch them flutter to the floor. 'No, Draco, this is me wondering what the hell your problem is. This is me wanting to know why you've closed yourself off. This is me being_ concerned_ about my partner. I'd appreciate a little honesty from you.'

'I'm a Slytherin—we don't do honesty, in case you'd forgotten.' But Draco has turned away, is tugging at his tie as if it's choking him.

'You want to tell me, though. I know you do.'

'You know nothing.' There's a snarl in his voice, and it reminds Harry of a wounded animal.

Harry locks the door to Draco's bedroom with a flick of his wand and disarms the other man, tucking both wands into the waistband of his trousers. Draco turns to face him, glowering, and there's a memory in his eyes that Harry wishes he could see.

'Talk to me, or you're not getting it back until the next lesson when you need it.'

'Talk about what, Harry? I don't understand what you want.'

But he does. They both understand.

'Draco. I want to know what I said that upset you. If it was about you needing more practise, I was teasing you, and if you feel you need it, I'll be happy to help,' he offers, hands splayed at his sides helplessly. He wants to cross the room and smooth Draco's hair back, wants to push Draco's hands aside from where they're still fumbling at his tie. But he can't.

'It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding,' Draco grinds out. He abandons his attempt at the tie.

Cautiously, Harry leans against the arm of a chair and surveys his partner cautiously and coolly, thinking back to his words. He wishes he had a Pensieve here.

'Was it that I compared you to a sixth year?'

And there it is. Draco jerks back slightly, just slightly, before he regains his composure, arms crossed over his chest protectively. Harry's insides hollow as he remembers their own sixth year, the evidence of which is being covered at the moment by Draco's arms. He remembers more of Draco's sixth year, arguably the worst year, and he thinks he knows.

They've not brought up the past. It's nearly taboo for them. They're moving on, forgetting.

But it won't go away.

'Ignoring it won't suddenly make it disappear, Draco,' he says quietly.

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Harry keeps speaking, 'You—_we_ were kids. We made mistakes, really stupid ones.'

Draco looks into Harry's eyes, _finally_, and oh, look, there's emotion. Exactly what he's been waiting for.

'You?' He laughs, a hard bark. 'You made no mistakes that year. You were perfect and wonderful—The Chosen One, meant to kill the Dark Lord and save the fucking world. I was worthless, couldn't even do a "simple" task. I cried my woes to a melodramatic ghost in a girl's bathroom. I let Death Eaters into the school. _We_ didn't make mistakes. I did. You could do no wrong. You still can't.'

'No one was badly hurt.'

'Oh, and that suddenly makes it better?' Draco's voice is mocking. Harry hasn't heard it that way for a while, not towards him.

'You know I didn't mean it that way. And you say I did everything perfect?' Harry takes a deep breath, steeling himself. 'Look at your chest. There's a very prominent reminder against that.'

Draco says nothing for a minute or so, before, 'That was different.'

'No. It wasn't.'

Draco is silent.

'I'm sorry about this comment, I really am, but you can't exactly hide forever. _Especially_ not at Hogwarts. What are you going to do? Avoid the Room of Requirement? Get nervous whenever you enter a bathroom? Pretend the Tower doesn't exist?'

'Shut up, Potter.'

'I won't. And don't call me Potter. We've moved past that.

'So here's what's going to happen—you will go back to normal. We will teach. There will be laughter. I will not may pay attention, and I will duel unfairly and you will scowl and call me a lazy, bastard Gryffindor. You will scare the children; you will come to me if you need to talk about anything pre-Voldemort-death. And you will stop cringing at the name, hell.'

'Then stop saying it.'

Draco scowls, and all is right with the world.

Well.

Mainly.

-scenebreak?-

The system works. Harry makes sure to bring something up from their own school days at least once a day, if only to remind Draco that it's there, to prevent him from regressing. It's only natural that he begins questioning about Harry's life after Hogwarts, Harry's friends, and Harry asks in return.

It's late, and they each have a stack of essays to grade. Draco sits at his desk in his office, quill in hand, thoughtfully reading through each page and making frustrated noises and violent marks. Harry sprawls sideways in an armchair, his own pile on the floor next to him, absently marking the pages as his legs swing in the air. Draco's office is comfortable, a fire dancing in the grate, magically lit torches flaring _lumos-_bright light for them to work by.

'So Granger and Weasley are getting married when?' Draco asks, scratching out what looks to be a whole three lines with red ink. Harry is privately amused at his partner's precision—he knows most of the students hope they get Harry as their grader.

'Next June, I think. Not quite sure about the exact date, to be honest, but I've got months to prepare. Do you think that if Lewis didn't go into detail about the most common places to find a Grindylow that I should dock him a few points?'

'Dock him a grade, Harry; that was a point we specifically asked them to cover.'

'He mentioned it. He covered it. It was just… brief.'

Draco looks up at him, and Harry snorts at the look on his face, smiling. 'Fine, fine. But yeah, next June.'

'Who are you planning to take, or do you have any idea yet?'

Harry pauses and frowns thoughtfully at the paper. 'Huh. I hadn't thought about it, to be honest. Do you think I need to know this far in advance?'

He shrugs and stretches out cramped fingers; Harry can't help but watch, his mouth suddenly dry as he remembers a dream he'd had a few days ago. His plans to ignore the dreams—for the most part—are… well, they work occasionally. He still can't control what he thinks at times.

Those times are becoming more and more frequent, if he's honest. At least once a class he gets the urge to touch Draco, to watch his partner without being interrupted, to leave the room and jerk off like one of his students in a loo. It's ridiculous. He can't remember being_ this _attracted to him when they were younger, though, if he's honest, he's always had strong feelings for the blond. Hate transformed easily into lust, though, which is now further tinged with friendship.

And Harry can't help it at all.

At half eleven, Harry stretches out in his armchair and places the last essay from his pile back on the floor with the others, sleepily staring up at the ceiling and listening to the scratching noises made by Draco's quill, the soft mutters of what idiots their students are, the crackle of the wood in the hearth…

He feels the hand on his shoulder even through his shirt. Draco's hands are cold, his fingers long, but his breath is warm as he leans over Harry. 'Oi, wake up, idiot. You're not sleeping in my armchair. You'll have a bloody sore back tomorrow if you do.'

Harry's eyelashes flutter open and he fights a yawn, staring up at Draco's eyes. They're flickering with shadows from the dying fire, embers lighting up the angles of his face, highlighting lips and eyelashes and cheekbones. Draco shakes him lightly, and Harry closes his eyes again, shaking his head and reaching out a hand to latch onto Draco's belt loop. ''m tired. Don' wanna move.'

Draco snorts and attempts to pull away from Harry, who tightens his grip. Harry imagines he hears the blond swallow before the low, soothing voice is coaxing him. 'C'mon, Harry, I'll help you up to your rooms. Put a little effort in, please?'

Effort. Harry needs to put effort into it. If he's going to dream about Draco in both waking and sleeping moments, maybe he needs to acknowledge that, maybe he needs to act on that.

So he pulls.

He pulls at the belt loop, as hard as he can in his mainly-asleep state, and Draco lets out an, 'Oof!' before tumbling down on Harry. He feels nice, all soft and _warm_ and Draco-smelling.

He puts his head up and _oh_, he's kissing Draco Malfoy.

He thinks that Draco freezes, but that's rather insignificant, obviously, because Draco's lips are as pouty as they look and apparently Malfoys actually _do_ breed well because, _Merlin_, this is bloody _brilliant_, this is.

His head is starting to cramp, so he moves his hands up to grasp Draco's hair—_that's nice_—and eases them down with his head, never moving his lips.

Then he falls back asleep.

-scenebreak?-

He wakes up in his own bed.

When he gets down to the Great Hall for breakfast and sees Draco, he feels like there's something he should remember.

'Mornin', Draco,' he says, grinning. 'How was your night?'

Draco looks at him strangely. 'It was well. You?'

'Okay, I suppose. Thanks for getting me to my room, if that's what you did. Can't really remember much after I finished the papers.'

Clearing his throat, Draco sets his fork down. Furrowing his eyebrows, Harry feels like he's done (or said) something wrong, but he's not sure what.

'What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing. Just a bit tired.' Putting his cup of coffee up, he adds, 'Working on that.'

Harry nods, but keeps looking at Draco, feeling like he's missing something vital.

'If you stare at me any longer, Harry, people will start to think that something is going on. Wouldn't want that.' Draco grin is sudden and cheeky and Harry flushes red.

'Of course not,' he mumbles, getting back to his porridge.

That cleared any thoughts of possible-relationships. Really, as if Draco would actually want _him_.

And yet.

Harry _wants _Draco to want him because, fine, he admits it, he wants Draco. More than is probably healthy.

It's certainly not healthy for his sleeping habits—the dream last night had been the most innocent one of the lot, just a kiss, dimly lighted, comfortable, warm. Harry thinks that, if he ever does find himself involved in a successful relationship, he wants that to be a part of it as well. Lust is all well and good, but…

He sighs. It's not what he and Draco are destined for, at least.

And no matter how many times he tells himself this, nothing can be done. As weeks go on, Harry notices little things, like the way Draco always looks at the back of the classroom before his gaze moves to the front. And Harry notices the trousers his partner wears, the jumpers, the occasional ties—the days when Draco wears ties are worst, because the dreams have taken to this particular item of clothing almost obsessively.

Halloween morning dawns bright and early, light spilling into his bedroom from the east-facing windows. He stretches out with a yawn and, as usual, takes note of the persistent problem under the sheets. He really wishes he could somehow get Draco back for this, but that would be admitting that he feels something, wants something, and he can't do that.

Rejection has never suited him well.

But it's in their fourth year class, where the students are beginning to learn about the Unforgiveables, that Harry realises a contradiction in himself. He's watching Alyssa Marcini, one of the Gryffindors, volunteer to fight off the Imperius Curse, when it hits him.

He's a _Gryffindor. _Yes, the Hat thought about putting him in Slytherin, but ultimately he ended up at the table across the Great Hall. And he's been acting more Slytherin than Gryffindor, these past few weeks. Slytherins might care about their own self-interest and fear rejection, but a Gryffindor is supposed to be courageous.

He can be self-interested and courageous if he wants to—he can be both.

Draco takes the practical for this part, casting _Imperius _on Harry as a demonstration, explaining the way Harry throws it off. That he attempted to make Harry pirouette around the room and throw his robes over the chandelier amuses both of them. He turns his wand to Marcini, coaxing her along, while Harry watches him.

He nods, decided.

He's not a coward, and he'll go after what he wants.

'As I'm sure Miss Marcini will be able to tell you, the _Imperius_ is not a pleasant feeling. You lose your entire sense of self; your mind and body belong to the caster of the spell. The stronger the... passion that the other witch or wizard feels, the more difficult it is to throw off the spell.'

A black-haired boy by the last name of Alecio raises his hand and Harry barely refrains from groaning. His questions are rarely appropriate.

'Yes?'

'How many times did you cast _Imperio_ when you were a Death Eater, Professor Malfoy?'

Not bothering to lift his head from the paper that's he's reviewing, Harry lets out, 'Twenty points from Ravenclaw, Mr Alecio.'

'That's not fair!' the boy complains. 'You can't _honestly_ be standing up for him, Mr Potter. He's a _Death Eater_, sir.'

'Another ten for talking back, and because I'm _Professor _Potter. Shall we continue? I hear you were hoping for your House to win. It'd be a shame for you to get a hundred points docked in one class.'

Alecio scowls rather impressively, but quiets.

'Thank you. If you would continue, Professor Malfoy?'

Later on that evening, during the Feast, Draco comments, 'You sounded an awful lot like Severus earlier.'

Harry freezes. With all his talk of 'facing the past,' Snape has always been a sore spot.

He tries to smile and shrugs. 'Imagine if he'd heard you saying that.'

'He'd cut my bollocks off and spell them to my forehead.'

Harry cringes. He prefers Draco's nether regions right where they are, thank you, and _fucking hell_, he's hard again.

-scenebreak?-

He firecalls Hermione that night.

''Mione, I need your advice.'

'Hello to you, too, Harry. How ever was your Halloween?'

'I think I'm falling for Draco and I need ways to woo him,' he blurts out.

Well. That's Gryffindor, in its way—when in doubt, ask Hermione.

One of Hermione's eyebrows rises. 'Do you.'

Belatedly, Harry realises that Hermione and Draco would have gotten along terribly well under different circumstances.

'You don't sound shocked. Why aren't you shocked?'

'Why would I be shocked?'

Harry gapes. Not very adult-like, but that's usually more difficult around Hermione

'Oh, _honestly_, Harry. You've been flirting with Malfoy since—third year?'

'_What?_ Of course I haven't! I hated him.'

'Sure you did, dear.'

'I _did_. I just—mainly started now. Why do you think that?'

'We'll finish this later. Ron is here and I doubt that you want to explain your undying love of 'Ferret-Face' to him. He's still hoping to set you up with Dean.'

Harry snorts, but is still mulling over Hermione's admission.

They chat about the mundane, about the wedding, about how Ron's Great Auntie Muriel is considering letting Hermione wear the goblin-made tiara. Frankly, Harry doesn't care that much for the details, but he listens patiently nonetheless, smiling. At least his two best friends are happy, as they deserve.

He ends the firecall soon after, lying back on the rug and staring up at the ceiling above him. He thinks back to what she'd said. Has he really been flirting with Draco since third year?

It's true their relationship has always been intense, and from a certain view point it could look like a version of pulling pigtails…

And he admits it. He has. All the stalking sixth year… half of his motive had been unknown to him at the time.

Now he's working with Draco, in close quarters, and dreaming very active dreams. He's aware, oh so aware, of just how attractive he finds his partner, aware of just how much he wishes Draco could return his interest.

He sits up, then, and frowns thoughtfully at the robes he'd tossed over the back of a chair. Draco had tried to make him strip today, though it was only for a bit of a laugh. Harry decides to take this in a positive light, and tries to recall anything else he can twist into evidence of mutual attraction.

He's aware that it's desperate, but at this point he really doesn't fucking care all that much. What little pride he has is being pushed aside by desire and something warmer that is less about sex and more about Draco.

Hermione hadn't given him advice, but, then, she wasn't the one interested in a relationship, or the one that knew Draco in the same way he did.

Nodding resolutely, Harry gets to his feet, grabs a bottle of firewhiskey from the cabinet in his room, hides it under his robes, and finds himself standing at Draco's door some minutes later. His partner lets him in with a mildly surprised lift of his eyebrows, but gamely summons tumblers for them both as they take their respective seats.

'Firewhiskey, Harry? Any special occasion?' Draco asks, watching as Harry pours some into his glass.

'Maybe,' Harry admits, and smiles over the rim of his glass. He's gratified to watch Draco's eyes widen, just slightly, before the other man cocks his head curiously. 'A toast, to what has been and what might come?'

Draco gives him that strange look again, but repeats the words, all the same.

It doesn't come to him until after the first drink is finished and Draco is refilling the glasses, but it comes. And the end of the night, he walks out of the room far more sober than Draco. Sure, he'd taken a few sips every now and then, to keep up the charade when Draco is closely looking, but mainly—mainly, he wordlessly charms the glass to periodically empty.

Steels himself.

And he talks, under the disguise of 'drunk confessions.'

'Y'know, Her—Herman—Mermonynee!' he exclaims, sloppily grinning at his 'accomplishment' and continues. 'T'was talkin' to her, I was. Sh— can you _believe_, she said, Hermanfanny, she _told me_—that I've been _flirting_ with ya since—since _third year_. S'crazy, her. Real crazy.'

'Kinda—kinda _hot_ for a bloke, Drake.'

''Member sixth year, when t'was sta—stalking you? Think I liked ya even _then_. Know, righ'? Think 'Hanmyne co—correct.'

'Had a dream last night abou' suckin' you off. D'ya like that, Draco?'

'Can—can I fu—_fuck_—shh, don't tell no one—you some—something, no, sometime? Be nice, bein' inside you.'

'Yer fucking pretty, y'know that, Draco?'

Before he leaves, he Conjures a Sobriety Potion and convinces Draco to drink it. In the morning, the other male will remember everything.

_Everything_.

He thinks he might vomit. It's all nerves.

-scenebreak?-

Harry opens his eyes the next morning, blinks once peacefully, and then his insides turn to glass and he remembers. 'Shit,' he groans, rubbing hands over his eyes. 'What the hell was I thinking?'

But he knows what he was thinking. He knows oh so well.

He's slow to get ready that morning, taking his time in the shower, straightening his tie obsessively, tying his shoes by hand. Harry dreads appearing at the breakfast table as if nothing had happened. Or should he act as if something_ did_ happen? He stands up and grabs his wand, leaves the room, muttering to himself all the while.

He realises that taking his time was a bad idea when he enters the Great Hall and discovers that Draco has beaten him to the table. The other man looks bad—for him—with dark circles under his eyes and mussed hair.

It's the hair that really strikes Harry though, as he slowly makes his way to his spot. Draco's hair is _never_ messy. That he'd forgotten to do it, or had messed it up by running his hands through it, says almost more than Harry said last night. He winces at the memory of the 'drunk' words he had slurred as he drops into his seat. His neck and face feel too warm; he knows he's blushing a horrendous shade.

It's a moment, in which he sits immobile, before he turns slowly to face his partner, who is staring with astonishing attentiveness at the margarine. But then Draco is lifting his eyes to Harry's face, and they're both glancing away as if someone's cauldron has exploded and called their attention.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, _Harry thinks, taking a deep breath and unclenching his jaw._ Why am I such an idiot? Why didn't I wait for Hermione to help?_

He startles when he reaches out to pour himself a cup of orange juice—a hand had brushed against the side of his thigh, light, tentative. He barely manages to catch the goblet before it tips over.

Harry turns to stare at Draco, who is tentatively grimacing at him. 'Er… sorry for startling you.'

He can't help it—he snorts. After all of it, he gets_ that_ as a response.

Draco flushes, gently pink, and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. He looks like he'd like to disappear into the floor, drop through it like a ghost, and Harry reaches out, sets a hand on his forearm as if to prevent it. 'How're you feeling?'

The blond lets his free hand drop to the table and frowns at Harry. 'Like shite, obviously. Do you have any idea what that damn firewhiskey did to me?'

Harry's eyebrows lift in amusement. 'No, I wasn't aware the alcohol could actually be active.'

Draco rolls his eyes, leans slightly closer, until Harry's breath catches in his chest. 'Potter, I swear on Salazar's grave, if you ever do that to me again, I will curse your nose off. You'll look like the Dark Lord after I'm through with you. See how many admirers you gather then.'

He bites back a laugh and shakes his head. 'What, precisely, do you mean by "that?" Can you elaborate?'

'The getting me pissed on a school night _that_,' Draco responds, adding air quotes for good measure.

Harry contemplates, bites his lip, and dives. 'So, not the part about me spouting off, er, decidedly embarrassing things to you—about you?'

Draco freezes for a moment and then glances at Harry again. His hair is falling in his eyes; Harry wants to push it back for him. He keeps his hands on the table in front of him.

'What do you think?'

'I thought you were under the impression that I don't think at all?' His voice is casual, but his eyes are anything but. _If you hate me, just tell me. Please. I can't stand it. I want you too much. I want you . I want you. I want you._

'Even _you_ could have figured out a smoother way to tell me, Harry. But,' and _fuckfuckfuckfuck_, that's not good, _fuck_, 'I need to think about that. You just—fucking sprung it up on me, Harry. I need to think about what I'm going to do. Do you understand?'

Harry deflates.

'Yeah. I understand,' he whispers, before not-so-subtly turning to engage Filius in conversation.

_I don't understand. I don't. I don't. I don't. I want you, I want you, I want you._

_Please, want me. I want you to want me, too._

-scenebreak?-

That night, he really _does_ get drunk.

-scenebreak?-

Winter holidays arrive, and Draco still isn't done 'thinking.' Things have gotten back to normal, in their way, but nowhere near how they had been.

_God_, Harry feels so fucking stupid.

He sleeps at Grimmauld Place, but spends most of his days with Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys. He floos Seamus and visits Dean; Neville and Luna show up at the Burrow on Christmas Day.

Draco sends him an owl. _Happy Christmas, Harry,_ with a tie attached, in Slytherin colours. He tries to smile at the humour of it, but _oh_, he wants to be there with Draco, near him, with him. He wants to be wanted, and he wants to be wanted by Draco Malfoy.

Which is fucked-up in far too many ways to be counted.

'Alright, Harry, what's up with you?' Ginny asks, sitting across from him on the grass as they watch the smaller children race around on brooms. Teddy, being the oldest of them all, and determined to get a spot on a Quidditch team in three years when he is finally eligible to sign up, flies with determination and a grace on the broom that he surely does not have on the ground.

Smiling, he turns to address Ginny, 'What do you mean?' Mind still on his godson.

'Unless someone is actively talking to you, you walk around all forlorn and lovesick. Spill, Potter.'

'It's nothing. Really.' It would be his luck to get the _one_ female almost as persistent of Hermione.

'I don't buy.'

'Drop it, Gin. Please.'

She narrows her eyes and scrutinises him for a moment before sighing.

'Fine. But only because it's Christmas, and only because I have a hot date tonight,' she grins.

Grateful for the subject change, Harry asks who.

'Blaise Zabini.'

'Good for you, Gin. I'd never imagine a Weasley to go after a Slytherin, but who knows?'

'I'd never imagine a Potter to fall for a Malfoy, either,' she says lightly, before raising a knowing eyebrow and walking away into the home.

Fuck.

He springs up and follows her inside, stopping her in the kitchen. Thankfully, Molly is playing Celistina Warbeck at great volume in the living room, as is traditional, so their conversation is private. 'How'd you know?'

'Harry, you work with him. You smiled at the tie he sent like it was a new puppy. And, honestly, even when you were dating me in school? Malfoy was your priority.' She rolls her eyes and hops up onto the worktop, grabbing an apple from the bowl there.

Sighing, he leans next to her. 'Well, since you know. Any suggestions?'

Gin shrugs. 'I don't really know the whole story. I'm assuming you've either not told him or that he's turned you down, from the way you're acting.' She crunches into the apple and holds it out to him.

He shakes his head, pushes it back toward her, and admits, 'He said he had to think about it.'

Ginny blinks at him. 'When did he say this?'

'Halloween,' he mutters, nearly inaudibly. 'He's been… a little bit off since then.'

She snorts and gestures hopelessly with the apple. 'He's such a Slytherin. Probably looking at it from every angle before he makes his decision instead of doing what'll make him happiest.'

'But how does he know I'll make him happiest?' And he's aware that he's defending Draco when he'd previously been in the same camp Ginny is now occupying. He's aware that he's that far gone.

'How does he know you won't?' she argues.

He has to duck to avoid getting clobbered by the flying apple.

-scenebreak?-

Grimmauld Place is more crowded than it is on most nights when New Years Eve comes around. Most of the kids are with Molly and Arthur, leaving parents free to socialise and drink. Harry smiles at his guests, pushes alcohol on them, focuses mainly on their happiness.

Because, sap that he's turning into, Draco isn't here and he has nothing else to do, really. Besides, he hasn't really been drinking much since the night after Draco put him off.

George and Angelina are leading a rousing burst of song in his drawing room while he stands back and watches, fondly remembering, wishing Fred were here as well even though he knows his house probably wouldn't be standing if he were. Hermione and Ron are sprawled in an armchair being… well, Harry can't look at them right now. Happy as they are, he still has a tendency to be jealous at times.

Dean and Ernie, arguing and being loud; Charlie and his boyfriend playing some kind of drinking game with Fleur, Seamus, and Parvati; Bill discussing some of the plants he's seen with Neville; Luna, Ginny, and Blaise making headway… Everyone else is, well, mostly coupled up.

He sighs and turns to answer the door when the wards alert him to another visitor walking up the path.

And then he's staring at the apparition in front of him—maybe he has had a little to drink—and staring at the scarf wrapped securely around his neck, at the coat buttoned all the way up, at the pink cheeks and perfect hair and hands shoved in pockets. 'Harry. You mind if I come in? It's bloody freezing out here.'

He steps aside to let Draco through, fumbling to close the door behind him twice before he manages it. 'Draco.'

The blond looks down the hallway toward the noise and lifts an eyebrow at him. 'You have guests and you didn't invite me? For shame, Harry, it's as if you've changed your mind.'

'I haven't,' he blurts, and cringes. 'Er…'

Draco laughs, exuberant, and unbuttons his coat. Inside Harry's house. The images don't take much to race to the forefront of his mind.

'Do you mind if I crash the party, Harry? It's pretty pathetic to be spending New Years' with your Mum, don't you think?' Draco is grinning, and Harry doesn't think he's ever seen this much—_joy_ come from the other wizard.

_Draco Malfoy must be a holiday person, odds of all odds._

'No. I don't mind,' Harry finally stammers out, taking the coat from his guest. He doesn't smell it, he convinces himself. Of course not.

'Good. Walk me, will you? I don't feel safe without protection around so many Weasleys.'

Harry snorts at this, but when they rejoin the midst, he notices that though they all throw looks toward Draco, they're more exasperated than angry and a few greetings are even called across the room.

Okay.

What the bloody _fuck_?

Draco makes his way over to where Ginny, Luna, and Blaise lounge around, drinking lagers, and though the handshake with Zabini is expected, the hug that he gives Luna and the wink he receives from Ginny are _not._

He makes his way over to where Hermione and Ron sit, and purposely squishes himself in between them, half on Hermione's lap. It's the only way that he'll be able to have a serious conversation without the two attacking each other anymore than they already have. They should have expected it, really, all of them, how the couple would act when they finally paired up. Seven years of foreplay and sexual tension tends to build a bit of passion.

'What's with the bloody camaraderie? And how did he even know about this? Who gave him the damned coordinates?'

'One would think that you'd be complaining less, Harry.'

'Don't change the subject!' he hisses to Hermione, who looks far-too-calm. 'Do Malfoys even crash parties?'

'Dunno why you're asking us, mate. Aren't you two best friends now? I'm sure he'll explain.'

He looks, appalled, at the poorly-disguised amusement on Ron's face. Not Ron, too. 'Oh, come on. Please just tell me. I'll end up looking like a right fool for the rest of the night, and I doubt he'll drink in my presence ever again.' He pauses. 'Why do you even _know_ all this?' he exclaims, very close to losing it. Draco. In his home.

_It'd be much better if he were naked_, an unhelpful voice at the (not-so) back of his head mentions, and Harry avoids groaning. It would be. But that's _not the point_.

'Harry, everyone knows. And, well, what we do with that knowledge is our business.'

'You threatened him, didn't you?'

'On a few counts, possibly,' Hermione replies lightly. 'Now go on and mingle. You're being a terrible host, interrupting your guests from serious discussion.' It's nice to see her joking so easily at the obvious swelling and redness of her and her fiancé's lips, and Harry grins slowly, a brief respite from his Draco-obsessed thoughts.

'Serious discussion. Right,' he says, getting up. 'Please take the most enthralling debates to your _own _house, please.'

He walks over to where Draco has migrated to the drawing room with George and Ang.

He suspects that the blond must be at least a _tad_ inebriated.

'Oh, you should see the kids at Hogwarts now. Think they're all smooth, with their sudden nose-bleeds. Summon the other half of the candy, make them take it and—bam. Problem solved. They all think that Wheezes' was created at their arrival to Hogwarts. Classics.'

Harry stands in the doorway, blinking.

Some major plot has been going or, or the Muggles have finally realised that certain pigs _can_ fly, because this just isn't _on_.

Draco turns then, smiling, and waves Harry over. 'Harry! I notice everyone else has a drink. Mind helping a mate out?'

And Harry lets his feet guide him into the kitchen, feeling utterly confused and lost and a little betrayed by his friends. Nosy buggers, the lot of them.

He's grumbling under his breath as he reaches up for another crystal shot glass when the hands settle on his hips, long fingers slipping through belt loops. The crystal slips from his hand and smashes against the work top. 'Shit,' he breathes, looking over his shoulder.

This is too close for friends. This is too close for thinking. It's still not close enough, not really, not for Harry. Draco lifts his eyebrows slowly, surveying the broken glass, and pulls Harry backward; he stumbles, inelegant, ungraceful, and his back is up against Draco's front. Too warm, his heart is beating too fast, this is too sudden.

He breaks away, turns to face his partner with his hands out in front of him. Draco laughs and reaches out for them, and, oh, god, he's not just tipsy. He's hidden it well.

'Harry, Harry, where are you going?'

'I… but… What do you want, Draco? Do you know? Can you honestly say you'd be doing this if you were sober?' And why are these words falling out of his mouth? Why isn't he giving in, leaning in, kissing Draco for all he's worth?

Draco shrugs. 'I don't know if I could do this sober.'

Harry sighs and shakes his head, wanting things to be different. 'Not like this. If you can't do it sober, you shouldn't do it at all.'

'Drunk actions are honest thoughts,' Draco parrots, laughs again, takes a wobbly step forward.

But Harry is decided. His chest feels like it's filled with lead, but he steps back again, and Draco's eyes are narrowing. 'Not like this,' he repeats. He turns and leaves the room, feeling the surprised fire of Draco's gaze on his shoulders all the way out.

-scenebreak?-

He just can't get over it. He wants to yell, threaten, plead, _'Why? Why did you have to fucking do it that way? Why? I want you, and you can't even touch me without being drunk_—why_?'_

It hurts more than he cares to think.

He feels betrayed by his friends—'_Couldn't you have made him sober? Why like that, why like that?'_—but after a week and countless owls, he knows that he cannot rightfully rest the blame on them. They'd set it up for him to show up, not to get completely buggered beforehand.

He blames it on McGonagall for about an hour, for hiring Dra—_Malfoy_—but no, Draco, because it hurts too much not to say—in the first place, but then she looks at him sternly, as if she can see through his fucking soul, and he rethinks the fault.

So he rests it on Draco. And Merlin if it doesn't show in their classroom.

He duels, brutally, with curses just on this side of legal, and Draco gives as good as he gets, glaring at him the entire time as if to ask _'why?'_ but he has no right; that's Harry's question. Their upper years have learned not to say a word when Professor Potter decides that today, he's going to fucking see how many spells he can use to disfigure dear Professor Malfoy or that _today_, it'd be a fantastically brilliant idea to cage Professor Malfoy with venomous serpents.

One day in early February, Harry walks into the room before Draco and, with a flick of his wand, sets the board to say, 'VOLDEMORT.'

Leaning against it, he watches the reactions as his students walk in. Every single face cringes and shows a modicum of horror.

Draco is fucking _angry_.

He seems to forget that there are other students in the class as he walks up to Harry, and spits, 'Are you fucking _serious_? What in the _world_ possessed you to do something so—stupid, Harry?'

'The only way to stop history from repeating itself is knowledge,' he replies, on beat, voice calm. 'Do you remember the war against Grindelwald ever being mentioned beyond in passing? And look what happened.'

Draco stares at him in disbelief for a second before backing up and shaking his head. 'You know what, Harry? I don't even fucking care.'

A part of it had been to aggravate Draco, but only a very small part. He really means what he said about knowledge.

So he begins.

'Many of you have heard of You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord. Most of you don't call him by his name—Tom Marvolo Riddle. The name Lord Voldemort is an acronym from those letters. How many of you think you can say the name? None of you? Pity.

'You've also, of course, heard of Albus Dumbledore, a previous headmaster of this school and one of the greatest Light wizards in Britain. He defeated the Dark wizard Grindelwald, among many other accomplishments. Say his name.'

The class does, and he nods. 'You can say the name of one great wizard, but not another. It's fear. Dumbledore told me once that fear of a name only increases fear of a thing itself. And it's alright to fear the past, to fear history—if only because you fear it happening again. It is not alright to ignore it. Let me tell you of a time many would rather forget. Let me tell you of a time many people_ cannot_ forget, because it cannot happen again. Let me tell you of the war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.'

He goes on, tells them about Voldemort's rise to power the first time, about the Chamber of Secrets, about the Death Eaters. He tells them about their fourth year, the imposter who taught them, glosses over the resurrection of Voldemort—he won't go into personal detail about himself. He talks up until the bell, when Voldemort has barely risen. He'll continue the lecture starting with more details on the Order of the Phoenix tomorrow. He releases them.

Draco waits until the last student is gone and then locks the door firmly, turning on Harry. His face is pink, his jumper pulled off to reveal the shirt underneath, his hand shaking. 'What the fuck is your problem?'

'I don't have a problem.' Harry calmly flicks his wand at the windows, dimming the lights a bit for the next class.

'Yes, you obviously do. Are you going to go into detail about specific Death Eaters again, Harry? Like Barty Crouch Junior? Are you going to mention names, point fingers, let the kids go, "Hey, Professor Malfoy was a Death Eater!" Are you going to conveniently forget that Severus Snape may have saved the war effort? What about that, Potter?'

'I wasn't going to name names, no. And I wasn't going to forget Snape. I'm sure the kids are smart enough not to blame you. I mean, you didn't kill anyone.'

'Oh, I didn't, no. But I almost did, or have you forgotten that? I'm not just talking about Dumbledore. I'm talking about Ron, and Katie Bell, and Bill Weasley. Those people almost died because of my actions, as a Death Eater. And people will take that into consideration, Harry.' Draco pushes a hand through his hair and tosses his wand down on the desk. Sparks shoot out of the end when he does so, but he ignores them and stares at Harry. 'You should have talked this over with me.'

'Oh, because we're talking so much lately,' Harry snaps back. Truth be told, he'd not forgotten those things. He just wasn't planning to mention them. It didn't mean the kids couldn't look things up, or ask questions.

Draco whirls around and takes a deep breath. Harry can hear him counting quietly under his breath before he lets it out, turns around, shakes his head. 'Whatever, Harry, do what you want to, like you always do. I don't give a damn, but McGonagall might when one of those students writes home crying to mummy about the scary stories being told in class. We're Defence Against the Dark Arts, not History of Magic, just so you know.'

'Really? Could have sworn that it was Transfigurations,' he replies off-handedly. 'What was it that clued you in?'

He doesn't care. He doesn't, not really.

He turns to erase the name off the board, as they have second-years next, and he'd rather _not_ have yet another child faint in his classroom, when Draco lets out a growl and—shit—pins him, forearm against neck, against the wall.

'I don't know what your fucking _problem_ is, but if we have to cancel the next class, _Potter_, we're talking it out.'

Harry says nothing, choosing to level his stare with Draco's eyes.

With a sigh, Draco removes his arm and backs away. Harry starts to head back toward his seat, but then Draco grabs him under his armpit and drags him out of the classroom, locking it on the way out. With a flick of his wand, a sign appears on the door that declares it postponed.

'_Wingardium Leviosa_,' Draco spits out, and the goblin permits them entrance.

Harry figures that he should probably argue, when they start to go up the revolving staircase up to McGonagall's office, but cannot quite find it in him to _care_.

Harry also figures that he should be shocked to find the Headmistress already there. But again, he does not really care.

"Sit down. Have a biscuit." She conjures a plate, along with two cups of tea, looking at them from behind her glasses.

They sit. Harry takes a biscuit.

'What seems to be the problem, gentlemen? Everything has been going so well.'

'It is most likely Potter's fault,' Harry hears a familiar soft voice say. 'It must be terribly difficult teaching others if you never learned much yourself.'

Harry scrambles out of his seat and to the far end of the room, panic clear on his face, just as McGonagall chastises, 'Severus, that is completely unnecessary.'

Snape lays in a portrait that hangs side-by-side next to Dumbledore's, the latter of whom is watching Harry with a curious eye under his spectacles.

'I—no,' he whispers. He tries to open the door, but it won't fucking _budge_. 'Why won't it open?' He turns to face the other occupants of the room, 'Why won't the door _open_?' he demands, his breaths coming out in short gasps and he can't _breathe_ and he's back there, all over again, going through _everything_.

'Please,' he says, low, eyes wide, heart pounding a crescendo against his chest. 'Please let me go. Can we—anywhere else—just _no_.'

The other portraits have now turned their attention to him, but the only two that he can focus on are hanging above Minerva's head.

He doesn't dare even glance at Draco.

There's been a reason why he's always avoided coming up to this room at all costs, and had he not been so caught up in his _stupid, idiotic, pointless_ anger, he would have realised this.

He tries again, and this time, the passage opens.

He runs, and he doesn't stop until he has exited the building altogether and pauses at the very edge of the Forest.

Harry is well aware that he has not been acting like the sophisticated, mature adult that he should, but he can't, because it's all because of _him_, all of it, and he doesn't deserve it. Not at all.

-scenebreak?-

He doesn't know how long he's been out here. All he knows are the memories playing through his head, especially concerning the two men in the portraits, two men he respects. On the day when he was reliving the war for his class, they're sprung upon him.

And. Well. He's seen Dumbledore in his portrait, talked to him, in that moment right after the war. But Snape… he hadn't been up yet. Maybe because nobody had really decided what to make of him until Harry had given his testimony.

He should feel at least a little reassured. Snape might be dead, but his caustic humor and hatred of Harry still lived on in that portrait. He snorts. That's not any consolation at all. The man is dead, and he died after living the most unforgiving life of anyone Harry has ever known. He still wishes there were some kind of poetic justice, but then… he had killed Voldemort. Just, not soon enough.

How many people had died because he wasn't fast enough with finding the Horcruxes? How many people wounded, families torn apart, scars of all kinds administered?

Harry shakes his head against his knees, aware that his eyes are squeezed shut, aware that maybe his robes are getting a little damp. He doesn't care. He just wants to forget.

He reminds himself of what he'd said to his class. He can't allow himself to forget, and he hates that more than he hates anything else. He can't forget the sight of Fred Weasley surrounded by his family, can't forget the look in Snape's eyes, can't forget that Teddy has no parents because he was too slow. And that night, the battle.

Everything was so hectic, so loud. And Voldemort's voice, asking the castle to turn him over, is clear. It echoes in his mind, in his nightmares. He'd died that night anyway. Why had he put it off? So many people died in the meantime. Ron and Hermione knew about the Horcruxes. They could have destroyed them.

But he hadn't known about the piece inside him, the last piece, until it was too late. And when he'd walked into this very Forest, knowing what was to come, he'd felt so peaceful. Maybe because he knew Voldemort would die now either way, and he was able to leave it all behind, abandon the guilt.

He squeezes his legs closer to his chest, his breath too loud in his ears. Tangible reminders still tear him apart. Every time he Apparates to the Burrow or Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, for instance, he has to shut down a part of his mind still expecting Fred to shadow his twin.

He takes a deep shuddering breath, trying to calm himself, and opens his eyes to stare sightlessly at the trees around him. He knows the number of dangerous creatures in this Forest. He knows that if he really wanted to find it, the Hallow in this Forest is probably still here.

Harry shakes his head, trying to push everything away again, and finally hears the leaves crunching. He turns to look over his shoulder, expecting a thestral, and instead sees Draco leaning against a tree, arms crossed, eyes glued to Harry. 'Do you mind explaining what you meant to accomplish by running out here like that?'

His eyes close, shoulders hunching. Too soon. He lurches up and begins walking away. He's unsteady, he notices, and then he's immobile. Draco stomps around in front of him, wand in hand, and surveys his face. 'You look like hell. You're going to scare half the students to death walking in like that.'

If he wasn't under the Body Bind, he would flinch. Something of this must show in his eyes; he watches as it hits Draco, and the spell lets him go. 'You don't think—'

'I do, alright? Everyone who died that night? My fault. You may have _nearly _killed in the war, Draco, but I _did_. I did.'

'Bollocks, Harry. The one person you killed—and only because you had to, I might add—was the Dark Lord, and you didn't even _Avada_. If you hadn't, far more people would have been dead by now.'

'If I'd just... gone a little faster, if I hadn't hesitated as much—anything, _something_ could have saved a limitless number of people. Fred wouldn't have died, Remus... god, if I'd actually fucking _listened_ to Snape in fifth year, Sirius would have never died.

'But no. So you may not understand, Draco, and I don't expect you to, but this—the fact that they needed to rebuild Hogwarts, the fact that there was a Battle in the first place—my fau—_hmph_.'

Harry cannot exactly speak anymore because, _fuck_, Draco's mouth is on his, fingers in his hair, the other hand on his hip, pulling him closer and, _oh_, that's one to get him to stop wallowing.

When Draco moves away and two steps back, breath heavy, Harry takes two steps closer.

And then _he's_ kissing Draco, because fuck if Gryffindors remain impassive.

At one point, though he's not quite sure when, Draco ends up against the nearest tree, and Harry is putting all his bloody emotion into the kiss, grabbing, clawing, open-mouthed and biting, tongue—_tongue_—and _Merlin_, is this brilliant.

When they finally pull away—for breath, damn it, couldn't it be something more important?—Draco is flushed and even better-looking than he is on a normal day.

'I—er, thought that—that may convince you.'

Harry nods, but his eyes are on Draco's mouth.

'Did it work?'

He grunts and leans back in for another kiss.

_He wants me, he wants me, he wants me._

It's _obvious _that they want each other, because, _Merlin_, Harry can't help himself and Draco is making a noise that just travels _right down_ and makes it all the more obvious. Heat builds up between them, and Harry nearly swears he can see their breath rising as steam in the cold February air. Then again, he might just be seeing things; he wouldn't be surprised, not when Draco's hand is pushing up the bottom of his shirt and trailing over the sensitive patch of skin just above his trousers. Because he has to be imagining that as well, has to be. Draco is…

Draco is sliding his tongue against Harry's, is pulling at Harry's hair, is—oh, holy_ fuck_—is grinding against him and pushing his robes aside and fingering the top button of his trousers.

'Yes,' Harry gasps, 'fuck, fuck, fucking _yes_, Draco.'

He's pushing forward, eager, oh so eager, and hell if he's going to let Draco show him up in this. He kisses Draco's neck, just above his collarbone, drinks in the resulting gasp with a satisfied smile as his hands slowly brush down Draco's back. The other man shivers, and, oh, that's nearly as good as the hand dipping beneath his pants, tentative fingers brushing against his erection. If he hadn't been sure before, he is now. He most definitely is now.

'Harry—' And Draco's voice is low, so low, deep, rough, like he wants to be, filled with lust and—'Fuck,' dragged out in a moan. 'Please, please, please…'

Harry reaches around to the front of Draco's trousers, traces the buttons, trails his fingers down, up, down. Grins at the sudden grip on his own cock, tight, telling him that he had better stop teasing.

So he stops teasing.

Holding Draco in his hand like this, panting against his neck, pushing forward into Draco's hand himself… He can barely believe this is really happening. He starts laughing, just a little, because they're outside in the Forbidden Forest, in February, leaning against a tree and wanking each other off.

Not that he doesn't appreciate it, because he really—'Draco,' he groans, breath catching in his chest when the other man does something that sends a spike of pleasure down his back. He reciprocates, not to get back at him, just to share, and, yes, Draco is thrusting forward into his fist and gasping for breath. Harry likes this, oh does he like this.

They don't really plan to fall in pace with each other, to coordinate their actions. Their minds are blank, are full of each other, only each other, of feeling, of sensation. Dirty words spilling forth, hips pumping, thumbs brushing over sensitive heads… And then Harry is crying out, feeling his orgasm rip through him, pressing his mouth into the side of Draco's neck to muffle the sounds in his throat. And it's this pressure, it must be, that pulls Draco over the edge with him, Harry's name falling like a litany from his mouth.

Exhausted, pleased beyond rationalisation, Harry chuckles and kisses Draco at the corner of his jaw, on the side of his mouth, finally, slowly, giving a silent 'thank you, thank you, oh, Merlin, thank you' with a final, thorough kiss.

Draco pulls away, lazily smiling, reaching up to run his fingers down the back of Harry's neck. 'Mmm, next time, I think we should try that inside, without the clothes. Agreed?'

Harry nods, stepping back, looking down, and—well, he's not hard, he did just have the most spectacular release, but he will be, probably, soon. And he can't say he minds at all when Draco cleans them up, when Draco is buttoning his trousers up, taking his time, keeping his gaze locked with Harry's.

'We've still got to talk,' he warns.

But the words don't scare Harry anymore, not when they're coupled with the light pressure of Draco's fingers squeezing his own, just once, just enough.

'I know.'

'You have some type of residual issues with Severus, and are a hypocrite for not telling me, even after I told you most everything of mine.'

'I know.'

'You've been a right shit these last weeks and I deserve to hex you. You don't listen, you're stubborn and hot-headed, and have this tendency to do very, _very_ stupid things and make assumptions.'

'I know.'

'And even with all that, I think I'm falling for you.'

Harry blinks. 'Oh.'

'Yes, _oh_. Merlin help us,' Draco says, rolling his eyes, but his hand squeezes Harry's, once, twice, and there's a smile playing right at the edge of his lips, swollen red from his—_Harry's_—mouth.

'I want you,' Harry says simply.

'Somewhere, in between the whole wanking thing, I vaguely realised that,' Draco replies dryly. But the tone of his voice becomes completely ineffectual when, _oh_, he leans forward and once again, kisses Harry.

It's warm and slow and _wet_ and full of promise, and Harry flushes, light and—exaggerations aside—_perfect_.

He could get used to this.

'Oh, come on,' Draco sighs when he pulls his head back. 'We already canceled one class; can't skip another.'

Nuzzling—since the fuck does he _nuzzle?_—his nose into Draco's neck, he murmurs, 'We could always lie. Claim some terrible, terrible Dark hex was cast upon us that required us to shag each other senseless until the next full moon.'

Draco pushes Harry back, and grabbing his hand, drags him back to the school.

'Damned Gryffindors. Not _one_ iota of common sense, I _swear_.'

'I'll have you know—' Harry complains, happier than he has been in ever-long.

'Yes, yes, you're a teacher and so forth. A natural genius, magical prodigy and whatnot. I don't care. I know you're short, but is it _that_ hard to keep up?'

'Best you remember that. And I am _not_ short.'

So he's not being the best adult right then, arguing with Draco about his height and his lack of a lack of common sense, but that's okay.

Not like anyone's watching, and fuck it all, _Draco wants him_.

And that's all that he can really find in himself to care about.

-fin?-

* * *

><p><em>this... was the spontaneous result of my 'hey, rachel, we shoudl collab!' like a genius. duh. i'm not quite sure what it is, except that there's bad, short wanking by me and wonderful frotting by rachel. finished in a week (what, i know), i think we did pretty good. thanks to erica for the beta, and cracky title and summary are all my fault. the good parts are rachel, clearly. and thank you to daniel radcliffe, for no particular reason except existing.<em>


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